Daughters of Progress
by Aya-kun Rose
Summary: This may not be her city, but this has always been her fight. Teen!Fic.


Zaun _stinks_.

Not that the swampy lowlands back home smell like kittens and rainbows, but even Piltover's haze parts long enough to show the sun at least once a day. Sailing into the creaking port under the cover of night, there's no sun to be seen – but Vi watches the line in the sky where the stars are swallowed by the city's captive glow cloud. The impenetrable layer of smog marks the distinct point of no return, under which all lights, sounds, and smells sweat together in rancorous harmony.

She's been to Zaun before, always in the silent boat with the mute oarman, but familiarity doesn't make the gaseous stench any less shocking. She's eager to throw the rope over the moldy piling the second it comes into reach, swinging the craft flush to the dock with a splashing lurch, intent on getting into the heart of the city as quick as possible. There are other smells there, where the people barter and shout and steal, smells that are more palatable than what's on tap here at the festering shore.

Maybe she's too eager, as the meat-fist paw of her gang's deputy collides with the side of her jaw. It's a tap, a warning, but any harder and she might have lost a tooth or two. She sits back hard in the center of the little boat, her head reeling in nauseating opposition to the rocking of the waves.

"Mind the gear, luv," the beast grunts, reaching past her to finish shoring the boat himself. Vi automatically looks down to where the cloth-wrapped bundle in question sits shoved under the moldy bench seat, safe and sound. But she knows well enough to keep her mouth shut, this far from home and without any means to back her opinion. So she shakes off the annoyance and leans around him to drag the package out, hefting it into hands that are three times the size of her own.

The deputy deposits the package on the rough wood of the dock and she climbs out after it. While he busies himself with securing the craft and paying the oarman – who is already dozing off in disinterest – Vi carefully loads the bundle into her arms and taps her boot impatiently against the splintering planks. She'll need to acquire a new pair of kicks soon, or if not new, at least bigger ones. And it's a shame because the ones she's wearing are in pretty good shape, ugly as they are. Maybe, if all goes well tonight, she'll have the means to kit herself out with something more her style.

The boat carrying her remaining comrades glides up to the dock one bay over, and she notes with some irritation how boisterous and careless they are in getting the thing tied down. Her frown does not go unnoticed by the deputy, who by this time has hauled himself to the dock with unlikely grace. She's not quick enough to hide it from him, but this time his paw just settles on her shoulder, warm and solid.

"Them's replaceable goods," he says, casting a glinting eye over the hodge-podge retinue clambering ashore. "Not everything is." He gives the package a thoughtful tap, and then, as if she might not understand, he pokes the "VI" that adorns her cheek.

"Protect what matters," he intones with a nod. She nods back, but to herself she grumbles, _then don't punch me, ass_.

The rowdy gang catches up with them then, and together the ramshackle family stalks along the gloomy waterfront towards the chosen meeting place. Vi strides quickly to keep up with her found brothers, though it's not as hard as it used to be. There's a bit more length to her spindly legs these days, the only change puberty has wrought upon her that has her full approval. The rest of it, she could frankly do without.

She clutches the precious package close to her chest (obtaining her first corset had been a truly mortifying ordeal) and trots along under the metal and brick gantries that seem to weave a maze between the tall buildings above. The street lights are harsh here, but bright, burning the shadows away with chemical brilliance. This isn't a problem; although they'd had to avoid the harbor's patrolmen getting out of Piltover, once in Zaun they roam the streets with the proud bearing common to the conductors of private business. Zaun has historically cared little to know the nature of any venture carried out on its soil, just so long as somebody profits.

And today they intend to profit. Right at the hazy border between the towering techmaturgical factories and the towering housing complexes, the deputy takes them off the cobbled main road and down a narrow alley – more a tunnel, with the way the structures lean and jut against each other over head. The air is stiller here, thicker, and Vi is infinitely grateful when the ham-fists beat down a familiar pattern on a familiar door.

The door, all reinforced steel and barely-felt runes of warding, swings open without a steamy hiss. The deputy ushers in a few of the most replaceable men first, then Vi with the goods. The others trickle in after her, oddly quiet now that they've entered the domain of their client, whose ill-will they fear even more than that of their own boss. Things are different in Zaun, too unpredictable. The deputy checks the alley once, and then ghosts inside at the rear, securing the door behind them.

The corridor is just as claustrophobic as the tunnel-street, but they must have some kind of air filtration system because for the first time since she arrived, Vi can take in a proper lungful without wanting to gag. Single-file, the troupe begins its cautious journey towards the end of the hall. There are doors to the right and left of them, but as usual they are closed and none of the group spares a curious thought as to what might lay on the other side. As usual, their goal is the set of double doors straight ahead, which also swing open at their approach.

Not for the first time, Vi wonders if it's hydraulics or some sort of magic that welcomes them to the sultry, strange room that waits beyond the doors. While the corridor was drab and unmaintained, the meeting room is richly adorned in the style of a statesman's private study. Vi steps gingerly onto the green carpet, which is both deep in color and pile. The walls are draped with soft magenta curtains, a color scheme she doesn't much understand, but even her thirteen-year-old sensibilities can appreciate the intricate brass-inlaid woodwork of the enormous desk that stands alone in the center of the room.

The only other fantastic features of the space are the hovering spirit-lights that cast her shadow to every corner of the room. She's fairly certain that those, at least, are magic. Other than the grand desk and a few ornamental pieces, the room is empty, and the doors seal them in with a quiet yet ominous click.

"Go on," the deputy urges, propelling her forward through the ranks with one hand on the whole of her back. Vi stumbles a bit on the thick carpet, but manages not to achieve anything too disastrous. Pulling her chin up, she strides on too-long legs to the desk, alone. It's her show now.

The surface of the desk is polished so bright she can see her reflection clear and true, including the fading pink on her jaw where she had been smacked. She frowns at herself a moment, but the deputy's subdued growl behind her brings her back to the task at hand. Placing the covered object carefully on the desk top, Vi undoes the wrappings and spins her handiwork so that it faces the absent audience.

In the multi-angled light, the hextech device hunches ominously atop the ragged cloth, something about its gleaming pipes and bulbs giving it the aura of a sleeping predator. Maybe it's just the nagging thought that a contraption of this precise design is not exactly legal according to the laws of Piltover. But . . . maybe it's just the light. Vi wipes a bit of dirt from the face of a dial, and clears her throat.

"1500 PSI in," she announces, pointing to an intake valve, "Filtered here according to your specs; re-compression takes place in this chamber—" she flips down a hinged cover to show an empty glass tank "—up to 3000 PSI. I couldn't get the centrifuge down to scale to fit it into this model, but there's a work-around. Of course, scale it up 40 percent and I could make it work, but any smaller is a no-go. Either way, the compression chamber is fully detachable, just like so . . . ."

Vi deftly unhooks the container from the device, lifting it to show the empty room. The first time she had showcased an invention for what seemed to be absolutely no one, the experience had left her feeling quite the fool. Now it's no more an oddity than anything else Zaun has to offer.

"I tested it with the centrifuge we sold you a while back, and it'll do the job. Fully compatible, no problems there. If you want it now, there it is. If you need the centrifuge attached, gimme a week and it's gotta be twice as big. So, that's your options." She replaces the glass within the device and steps back. This part always gives her the tingles, though she's unsure whether she likes it or not.

"We have a deal?"

Waiting for an answer from a vacant room shouldn't be so nerve-wracking, but still it is. She doesn't know it to be true, but some of her gang brothers have gossiped at length about deals gone wrong, about vents hidden behind the sanguine drapes and what choking rewards a displeased client might offer a displeasing supplier.

But, as always (_so far_), their reward comes as it always does, in the form of a hidden drawer popping forth from the broad front of the desk at the same time as the sealed doors hiss open. Vi loves this drawer, for its exquisite clockwork more than for its gift of untraceable raw currency, but to be fair she loves the latter, too. Hands slightly a-tremble with satisfied pride, the girl snatches up the nondescript satchel and turns to show it victoriously to her fellow criminals.

The deputy nods once in limited approval and beckons with one meaty gesture for her to join them in getting the hell out of there. When allowed the opportunity to walk away with someone else's money, best to do it quick-like. So she gleefully darts to his side, the rest of the boys eager to race each other to the exit, to have cash in their pockets and a night's worth of living to spend it on.

The suffocating alley is an unwelcome prize for surviving the transaction, but it'll do. Better, though, are the coin or two that get pressed into sweaty palms, which immediately are squirreled away within secret pockets, so that the street-level crooks don't get to it before the gambling houses and pleasure dens have their fair shot. The deputy shoos the boys off with ribald warnings and firm reminders to meet back at the docks well before sunrise.

Before he sequesters the remaining bulk of their pay somewhere upon his intimidating person, he fits three entire gold coins into Vi's slender hands. She stares at it, throat gone tight - never before has her cut been so generous. The deputy chuckles at her side-blinded look and pats her once firmly on the back. She has to clutch fervently at the money to keep it from spilling into the filthy street.

"Best be getting used to a sight like that, luv," he tells her, pleasant. "Them what earns their keep, the boss takes a shine to. Now do I have to show you the way to the night district or are you old enough to keep an eye on yourself?"

"I can find it!" Vi all but shouts, pride and giddiness mixing in her system like some unchecked Zaunite experiment. _Three gold coins . . . !_

The deputy grins, heading off towards the house of the Zaunite woman and her children who call him "Papa." Vi's been there once, when they used to think she needed to be babysat, but she made one of the waifish girls cry and since then they let her stick with the men. "Before sunrise," he reminds her with a heavy wave.

Vi nods, eyes bright. She turns and dashes off the other direction, but not before carefully stashing her prize the way she's been taught. The metal bounces against her side as she runs, refueling her ecstatic grin with every step. She has money! That she's earned! And a full, free night to do with as she pleases! The attractions which have already drawn off her compatriots hold no allure for her, but the night district with its savory, exotic, and weird offerings is already calling her name.

The chemical lamps light the sprawling market bright as day, aided by the smoggy canopy which reflects back whatever light there is that's able to reach up to the hazy sky. Surrounded by the thick, warm air, filled to the brim with a chaotic jumble of sounds and scents, Vi can hardly believe that she's out of doors. Piltover doesn't have a place like this, at least not that she's aware. The lofty center of the city-state is still somewhat of a mystery to her, even though she's lived and fought in its outskirts her entire life. She imagines Piltover lacks any such attraction, anyway, one that equalizes the rich and the poor, the smart and the idiotic; the strata of human society compressed until only the intrepid remain. There's a sense of kinship she feels in the night district, even as a foreigner, even on her own. There's something about the place that makes her feel like she fits in, different though she may be.

She's not green enough to try to spend a gold coin on something trivial. She's seen what happens to her peers when they've presented the shining currency for a copper's worth of sweets. The exchange rate is not so kind in Zaun's night district. An idea ticks in the back of her mind, anyhow; tonight she has not one, not even two, but _three_ coins to her name. That's one to save (she's not going to rely on the gang forever), one to put into necessities like food and her tech, and one whole, sparkling coin to spend on herself.

_Spending _money. The novelty is sublime.

Vi grins and ducks under some low-hanging steam conduits, skirting past one of the rougher corners of the district in favor of a quiet shortcut. The shouts of vendors and their marks are muffled here, like voices from a dream, and Vi shivers in the relative coolness of the darkened alleyway, abruptly remembering the late hour. The doors to the living compartments are shut up tight against the night, and Vi runs past them without a thought, concentrating more on avoiding any seething puddles that might be bubbling underfoot.

She hasn't gone far when the angry shout from a dim stretch of alley pulls her up short. It didn't come from too close by, but not nearly far enough away for comfort. Zaun's back streets are just as lawless as the ones that ring Piltover, and her newly won gold weighs bright and heavy on her mind. Vi looks warily around before sidestepping her scraggly frame into a chill pool of shadow, just in time to not be seen by the thin, blonde girl who goes sprinting past in a gust of wind.

The girl had not been the one to shout, Vi is fairly certain. She pegs one of the two heavyset bookish types who are frantically pounding the pavement after her, huffing and puffing all the way, as the likely candidate. They're dressed like acolytes, she recognizes, students of the arcane.

_Try and catch up, nerds_. Vi mentally salutes her fellow pickpocket, waiting another moment or two before cautiously abandoning her hiding place. She's all but ready to carry on her way, but the sharp snap of unhinged magic, followed by a feminine cry of pain, freezes her for a moment too long. She knows well enough not to get involved, that the streets are ruled by their violent order, but . . . .

"Give us the book, witch," spits a reedy male voice, too breathless to be actually intimidating. The repeated crack of arcane energies bears the weight his tone lacks.

"I'm allowed to read it!" the girl retorts with conviction, but Vi hears the pale tremor in her voice.

One of the boys laughs, cruel. "Texts are for proper students only! Now give it here."

Vi's fists clench of their own accord. This may not be her city, but this has _always_ been her fight.

They don't even know what hit them. Vi hardly does, as well, she's just barreled into them from behind without so much as a vague outline of a plan. But she's not the only one equipped with the element of surprise, and the next thing she knows, a panicked reflexive flail has sent her to the ground with gritty cobble-mud stinging into her cut lip. She sure as hell _hopes_ it's mud.

There's no follow-through, and at first she doesn't get why they haven't capitalized on the situation. She risks sitting back on her haunches, turning to see the boys staring down at her with milky expressions of confused fear. One of them is holding his own hand like it's been burnt – she can see the specks of her own blood on his knuckles. They're no thugs, just a couple of sweating book worms. She grins, splitting her lip even worse. What a joke.

The boys don't know what to make of her, and the one that had backhanded her stumbles farther away as if expecting swift retribution from this crimson demon. She's got one knee up under her, ready to do just that (even two on one, it'll be a slaughter against these pasty-faced patsies), when the blonde girl darts in front of her.

Vi doesn't understand, but the girl ducks her head and thrusts the coveted book out at arm's length. "Just take it," she shouts. "And leave me alone!" Her blouse is singed on the shoulder closest to Vi where the arcane assault must have clipped her, but otherwise she appears to be in one piece.

"H-hey," Vi butts in, reaching out to the girl. This is a perfectly good rescue attempt suddenly going to waste, isn't it? Maybe Zaun doesn't work like that, because her would-be rescuee ignores her, continuing to offer the book as her thin arms begin to shake.

The closer boy doesn't take his eyes off Vi, slithering up to snatch the book out of the girl's hands. He doesn't say anything, just spits on the ground at her feet once the prize is in his possession. The other one, brave now at a distance, spits as well.

"Witch," he says, like it's the one and only insult. Then the two turn and trundle off into the murky shadows of Zaun's midnight. Vi sees them off with the customary one-finger salute of her people. It doesn't make a difference.

Vi pulls herself to her feet with a sigh, wiping blood and et cetera from her face onto her raggedy sleeve. "I coulda rumbled them," she says to the stranger, quite put out. Then again, maybe that's what she gets for sticking her nose in other people's business. She spits a glob of grime back to the ground where it belongs.

The girl spins to face her, and Vi takes an involuntary step back. Her damsel in distress is maybe a year or two older, maybe not, and dressed in the same sort of bedraggled hand-me-downs that Vi knows all too well. Her mismatched clothes, though, may have seen a washing or two in their time; and she carries herself with a slender grace quite unlike Vi's gangly awkwardness. The girl's light hair is only slightly out of place, and her reddened eyes can't hide her youthful beauty. Vi's mouth is suddenly dry (why?), and her blood seems suddenly hot (_how?_), and she decides to ignore it until it goes away.

Even though the stranger has few inches on her, something about that sad frown she's wearing makes Vi want to . . . what, exactly? She doesn't even know what it makes her want to do. Not even a guess. She finds her arms are half raised to the girl before she catches herself and flops them back to her sides. The girl hasn't seemed to notice, since she's shaking her head, and until she speaks Vi doesn't know what for.

"No, it's bad enough that you got hurt on account of me," the stranger says, her eyes seeming too soft for the rough Zaunite streets, "It was better that they went in peace."

"With your book!" Vi grumbles. Irritation, at least, is something she has mastered in her brief time on Runeterra, and she latches onto it as an anchor. "You can't let those fat-asses walk all over you like that, pal. I coulda made sure they'd never mess with you again." Her left fist slams home into her open palm, and she just wishes it could have been one of their stupid round faces instead.

The girl's frown trembles into a tentative smile, the sight of which crosses wires Vi didn't know she _had_. Her rancor ebbs, replaced fully by that unknown fuzzy feeling. So much for that, then. The Piltovian renegade clears her throat to distract herself, and nearly misses what the girl says next.

"They're just boys," the blonde says charitably, a gentle shake of her head. "They'll grow up. And I'd rather not use violence to prove I'm right. Also," she adds, the smile slipping away again. "I was just borrowing the book, really. So there's no reason to bleed for it." She lifts her hand to hover over Vi's lip, and though it doesn't make contact, Vi feels a curl of wind play cool and soothing along the throbbing cut.

"Is that magic?" Vi hears herself whisper. Despite her frustration at the other's hokey pacifism, she's altogether spellbound by this fair mystery of a girl. Zaun is so _strange_.

The girl starts, drawing her hand sharply back, as though she hadn't realized what powers she had been evoking the moment before. Her eyes shift downward – ashamed? "Yes," she admits, "But it's not real magic, not the magic they teach at the college."

"So?" Vi doesn't understand a whit about Zaun, but she definitely understands first-hand the importance of knowing your own strengths. And making freaking wind flow from your fingertips sounds like real magic to her. "Can the college teach you what you already know?" She waves her hand in representation of a small tornado.

Blinking, the girl pauses, then shakes her head. "No, the college hasn't seen anything like what I can do," she says, the first hint of pride coloring the words. The light is brief, a timid spark. "But there's so much more that I could learn there, if I could afford the schooling. I . . . the professors lend me texts sometimes, but . . . . The others don' t want me there."

"They're afraid of you," Vi says, her memory replaying the boys' callous disdain. _Witch_. In sympathetic echo, Academy students hurl similar barbs at the young mechanic from buffed brass pavilions. Different city, same kids. The other girl looks like she might refute the truth of it, but then she gives in with a forlorn nod. "You know it's only 'cause you can do things they can't," Vi shrugs, knowing. She puts out her hand, friendly. "Name's Vi, by the way. From Piltover."

"Oh!" The girl's hand is cool and smooth in Vi's own, which is warm and rough. "Janna, I'm Janna. It's very nice to meet you, Vi." Her eyes flicker to the "VI" stamped on Vi's face, but unlike most people at their first introduction, Janna doesn't comment.

Vi chuckles, reclaiming her hand with a shadow of regret at letting go. "Geez, get all fancy on me. Do they make all the street kids learn manners over here or what?"

Janna tucks a wisp of light hair behind one ear, her grin finally warm. "Actually, I think I'm the only one who did. I haven't met another."

"Lucky me," Vi drawls. "Running into the nice one. Er, and the others." She dabs a finger at her lip, pleased to see it's stopped bleeding at least.

Like clouds skating past the moon, Janna's expression goes momentarily dark. Her smile doesn't return, but her countenance is solemn, not morose. "Zaun's not perfect, but I believe it can be better. The people, too. We have to start somewhere, though, so . . . there's me."

Vi nods, agreeing without fully registering the weight of the sentiment. She's a heavy lifter strictly in the physical sense, after all. "Well, it could be worse. You should see Piltover," she jokes, preferring levity. The comparison is not even remotely true, and Janna laughs. Vi grins to hear it, and not even her split lip can stop her.

"I would very much like to see Piltover," Janna muses, "and maybe someday I shall. Until then, I'll make my way through Zaun as best I can." She reaches for Vi's hand and clutches it tight a moment. Her stormy gray eyes have a certain brightness returned to them, her smile genuine.

"Thank you, Vi from Piltover," Janna says, squeezing her hand before letting it go. "For your help. I'm very sorry you got hit."

Vi shrugs. "Eh," she replies. "That's life, isn't it?"

Janna grins a sideways grin, eyebrows drawn together like she doesn't agree but is too polite to argue. She takes a breath as if to say something more, but nothing comes. Instead, she raises a hand in parting and turns away into the night.

Vi frowns, staring after her, feeling somewhat deflated. She thinks there should have been more to it, or that there was something else she should have said. She can't put a name to it, but there's a distinct loss she feels watching the other girl depart. There's nobody like Janna in Piltover, that's for sure, but her situation hits painfully close to home. Vi's lip curls into a confused smile, and she shakes her head. She's never been a great thinker, but she can _feel_ like the dickens, and she's already moving into action before her brain catches up.

"Janna!" she calls, the name rolling easily from her tongue, "Hold up!" _This is a stupid thing to do_ _– ah, too late._

It's too late to change her mind, now that she knows what it is, because Janna pauses under a swaying lamp and turns, curious. Vi jogs up to her side, holding up a hand to beg her patience. With the other, she unclips the secreted money pouch and holds it up to the light. "Let's go get you a book," she blurts, face flushing with the extreme stupidity of the suggestion. "You know, so you can keep it to yourself and learn all the things." Her tone is pitched, like she's trying to convince not only Janna, but her own fool self. This is exactly the case.

Janna, the delicate thing, looks from the pouch to Vi and back again, utterly befuddled. She has no pre-formed response to this act of unwarranted charity; the situation is almost literally beyond either one's wildest imagination.

"It's okay," Vi presses, "I got paid tonight."

This elicits a concrete reaction, in that Janna accidentally lets her eyes sweep Vi's rangy form, surprised. Vi's flush deepens – she wants to hit herself in the head and knock loose this sudden madness – "Uh, no, I mean, we import! Hextech, Piltover's finest! Got a buyer out here who's mad about his chemicals. Um."

Janna bites her lip, though the corners of her mouth screw up in a winning smile. She's got her arms wrapped around herself to ward of the slight chill, but she unwinds one to press a hand to Vi's, pushing the offering back towards Vi's chest. "I can't take your money," she says, "You've earned it."

Vi swallows hard, and her chin raises on its own. Like a terrier with a rat, that's what the boys say, when she gets some idea into her head. Won't let it go. It's a fool thing to throw money away, but she has the means to make more. What does Janna have? "Bookshop's just down there, on the edge of the night district," she announces. A flick of her head points the way. "That's where I was going, anyhow, before I got punched in the face because of you. Look, I'm bleeding!" She jabs a finger to her lip, pouting to play up the minor injury.

"So the way I see it, you owe me," she continues, not unkindly. She stashes the little pouch and puts her arms behind her head, stepping back down the alley. "Walk with me to the shop and I'll consider us even, okay?"

Janna sighs, a sort quick exhale through her nose, and she crosses her arms again. "I suppose I could do that much," she admits slowly. "For such a brave hero."

"Pshh," Vi snorts. More to herself than anything, she says, "Who's a hero?" Glancing back, she confirms that Janna intends to follow, and then she sets off at a jaunty trot towards the bookshop. She grins when Janna appears at her side, tugging down one of her arms to wrap her own around it. The relative intimacy of the action sends a jolt to Vi's stomach, and she's sure her ears have gone red. The only thing she can think of to do is pick up the pace.

Vi leads the way right up to the shop, the place as familiar a landmark as any in Zaun for the young tourist. How many times has she pushed through the wormy oak door into the stifled coziness that only a musty old library can provide, to cast her eyes around the dim and dusty shelves, feathering fingertips over soft dust jackets that whisper promises of arcane and runic secrets? It's no lie at all that this had been her original destination, where she would have taken home one of the texts on advanced techmaturgy theory at last.

_There's always next time, Vi_, she thinks, reaching up to depress the squeaky latch. "I was thinking of picking up one of those teach-yourself-magic books," she says aloud, looking over her shoulder at Janna. "Know any good ones?"

There's a certain hesitancy to Janna's nod, like she's still unsure how serious Vi is, or worried about when this joke might shatter under its own weight. So Vi takes a good hold of the girl's hand and pushes into the shop, mage in tow. The overhead bell tinkles its warm welcome, and the heavy air crushes over them like a wordy blanket. Vi glances quickly around just to see that nothing's changed, and then drags Janna over to the technical section.

"Pick whichever one you like," she urges, dropping the pretense. The ceiling-high bookshelf is filled top to bottom with fat, ponderous tomes that are crammed in alongside each other like masonry, a literal wall of books. Most of the titles are beyond Vi's comprehension, and more than a few are written in languages she doesn't even recognize. She looks almost anxiously to Janna, hoping that there'll be anything worth the while here, but she breathes a sigh of relief to see the fair girl scanning the voluminous offering with a look of serious concentration.

Vi stands there watching her for a minute, and all the while Janna looks systematically through the shelves, one finger skating up and down book spines, another pressed thoughtfully to her lower lip. Rocking back on her heels, Vi finds her attention begins to drift, and she turns to begin her own half-hearted inspection of the shelf behind her. These are more of the same, covering topics from alchemy to transmogrification, all mystic mumbo-jumbo which she could really care less about.

A squat book catches her eye, one that's shorter but no thinner than the rest, with gilded text shining from the crisp jacket. "The Science of Magic: What Techmaturgy Means for the Future of Valoran" is the full-bodied title, with the author's name taking a close second. Vi has already begged, borrowed, and stolen her way through Heimerdinger's extensive repertoire of dissertations and treatises, but this one piques her curiosity with its startling newness.

She wedges it from the shelf and has just flipped to the cover page when she hears Janna's excited murmur. Vi jumps – she just _may_ have forgotten her present company – and looks over, seeing the girl knelt on the knotted floorboards, working a book of her own out from the gripping clutch of its neighbors. Oh, right.

With a page still in hand, unturned, Vi gently lets go. The board of the front cover is folded back in place, the jacket straightened and dusted with wistful strokes. Vi heaves the tome into its niche without so much as a sigh of regret, not outwardly, anyway. _Next time, for sure_, she makes the promise to herself.

When she turns to face Janna, Vi is nothing but smiles. "Found the one?" she asks, vicarious excitement finding its way into her voice. Janna nods, clutching an overweight volume to her chest, a hushed glee lighting her face. Vi feels something like relief, seeing that brightness. She's relieved that it doesn't seem so much like a bad decision anymore; the sight of Janna with her treasure doesn't sting at all, in fact it feels almost good. It feels right.

The proprietor, a wizened old Yordle woman wrapped in a rough-spun shawl, stares at them through her small glasses when they tiptoe to the counter. She's perched on a rickety stool which only puts her on the level with the pair, and she doesn't bat an eye at the nature of their purchase. In dry, dusty notes she names the price, which Vi dutifully pays, her shining gold coin disappearing forever without so much as a sideways look. The girl reverently accepts the few coppers handed back in change, as one does when one is unaccustomed to the triviality of exchanging currency for goods.

A nod of courteous thanks from Janna, and the two girls exit the shop, basking in their small victory of material gain. The coin pouch hidden at Vi's side is lighter now, but the loss is minimal – she finds that her companion's visible joy quells any lingering doubts regarding the sanity of her choice. They step down into the lamp-lit street, Janna shaking her head at what must be for her quite the surreal evening.

"I don't know what to say," she breathes. Tearing her eyes from the cover she glances over at Vi, adding, "Thank you, of course, thank you ever so much! But I don't know what to _say_." She ends in a laugh, realizing the circularity of her words. Vi meets her eye, not really knowing what ought to be said, herself.

In the moment they connect, Janna suddenly leans forward and presses a chaste kiss to the side of Vi's mouth that hasn't swollen. Vi's brain fizzes over, a complete power failure dead stop – it lasts an eternal all of one second, and it's over before Vi has even begun to process what is happening.

Living almost exclusively in the company of grown men, what she has learned of kissing has come from overheard late-night retellings of exploits and fantasies (which, in all honestly, have had little to do with _kissing_). Having no standard for comparison at her young age, the stories have mostly gone over her head, leaving her absolutely unprepared for the heart-stopping effect the simple act actually has on her.

She blinks stupidly at Janna, the memory of sordid tales quite at odds with the real life sight of such an innocent girl leaning over her. Perhaps . . . perhaps the older girl knows something that she does not, regarding kissing and the rest. Vi finds that she almost wants to ask, _is it always like this_? But she finds just as readily that she has no bleeding idea what "this" might possibly mean.

Janna smiles, but her brow furrows in angelic concern. "Are you alright?" Her fingers are light on Vi's lank brown hair, and the dumb-struck girl curses herself for not having washed it yet this week. That thought in itself is also a surprise. _What sort of witchcraft is this_?

"U-m," Vi struggles, clearing her throat after hearing her voice crack, making an effort to stall until she can do words again. She can feel the blood pounding in her ears, face red as nerves and embarrassment get the better of her. "_Um_."

Janna, beautiful, kind Janna, sets a cool hand against the flushed curve of her cheek, holding her book fast with her other arm. Vi leans into the touch without thinking (maybe she'll never think again), eyes cast firmly to the ground, arms stiff at her sides. A breeze ruffles her baggy, tattered clothing, bringing with it a fresh scent like morning on the sea.

"I promise, Vi from Piltover," Janna says, letting her magic spill around them to banish the choking Zaunite night, "Someday we will meet again, and I will make this night up to you."

The hand retreats back to its owner, and Vi is instantly sorrowful for its loss. She looks up, blush abating, just in time to see the effects of Janna's power dwindle, the girl's fine blonde hair settling over her shoulders. She swallows hard, wanting nothing more than for that promise to be kept.

"It's alright, as long as you become the best mage Zaun's ever seen," she says, trying to shrug it off, to regain her evaporated bravado. "And when you get to the top, just tell 'em Vi sent ya." Her eyes narrow, grin going wide, and she punches Janna lightly in the shoulder. Piltovian etiquette at its most refined.

Janna takes the well-meaning hit with as much grace as one might imagine, though she does rock ever-so-slightly under the impact. She murmurs a note of agreement, then again raises her hand in parting. Somehow they both know that Vi won't be running after her this time. "Until then," she says. "Stay good." In a whirl of golden hair, she departs into the night, enveloped smoothly by her city's shadows.

Vi works the toe of her too-tight boot under a loose cobble, her fingertips pressed to the cool memory that still tingles on her lips. Slowly but surely, a foolish grin sweeps across her face as the events of the night start to sink in. _Well that was something else_. She pats down her coin purse, not missing the extra weight in the slightest. With one of the deepest sighs she's ever breathed in her short life, Vi chalks this one up to fate and turns towards the harbor.

Window shopping her way through the night district, Vi takes in the sights and sounds as if for the first time, seeing Zaun with new eyes. The vendors still shout their pitches her way, waving jewelry and cheap toys, but they quickly move on to other targets when they figure out she's in no position to part with coin. It's almost relaxing, just moving along with the gentle current of focused patrons, having no urgency herself.

She stumbles across a nice pair of boots that tickle her fancy, and she dallies long enough to earn the attention of the cobbler. They've got little hextech lights that flash on impact, he points out proudly; she very nearly drools over his demonstration thereof. Maybe next time, she winds up saying, putting them down quite reluctantly. The stinging look in his eye says the cobbler doesn't believe her, and he snatches them away to show them off to another customer, but she doesn't hold it against him. Everyone's gotta make a living.

Boots aren't the only thing the night district has to drool over, and a chance whiff of something sweet makes her stomach growl. Big-ticket items are off the menu tonight, but the two loose coppers make themselves known, heavy and warm in her pocket. Darting haphazardly across the flow of traffic, Vi plants herself in front of a covered rickshaw which sports an array of pastries laid out on a precarious, side-mounted shelf.

Vi eyes them all, not familiar enough with the varied offerings to have a preference, before circling back around to one in particular: a small cake with a neon pink icing, complete with what she understands to be a cherry*, fire-red, lolling provocatively atop the sugary dome. The rickshaw owner/baker watches her with laser precision, as is his right as a night district shop-keep, but he loosens up enough when she timidly offers him the pocket change.

She's not even out of view of the cart before the cake is utterly devoured. Vi runs the rest of the way to the boats, sugar and whimsical satisfaction spiking through her veins.

She slows when she reaches the poorly-lit waterfront, grimacing again at the return of the sour air. The deputy's impressive silhouette moves carefully along the narrow dock, checking the ropes. To either side, her brethren shadows peel forth from adjacent alleys to spill drunkenly towards the boat that will take them home, where they will spend the day sleeping off the heavy effects of the night. She slips alongside them, avoiding their poorly aimed strides, until she parts ways to take up her seat in the boat reserved for the deputy and herself.

She's not quick enough. Even in the dark pre-dawn, her overseer spots her busted lip. "Oi," the deputy grunts, catching Vi's chin roughly in his thick mitt and turning her face his way. "Somebody hassle ya?"

Vi jerks back out of his grip, batting away the meaty arm. "Shove off, fat-hands," she growls, hackles raised. "I'm not a kid anymore." Her newfound defiance catches even herself off guard, but she stands her ground.

Some of the others whistle and mutter to each other at her brazen use of his nickname – they all call him that, but only when certain he's not around to overhear it. Vi stares him down, fists on her hip, eyes steely. There's a minute where he stares back, mouth a thin, sour line. Finally his eyes flash and he nods his assent, letting her win this one. He turns instead to holler at the ragtag crew, scaring them flailing into the other craft, and Vi lets out the breath she's been holding.

"You too, shrimp," the deputy commands, stepping down into their boat. Even at that level he towers over her, one paw reaching to wrap around her forearm to lift her bodily in after him. She can't complain, and it's better than another reproachful jab to the face, anyhow.

She stretches out on her little bench while he slouches against the back of the boat. The mute oarman deftly maneuvers the craft away from the dock and out towards the bay, taking them home again. Behind them, Zaun glitters and smokes, and is dazzlingly bizarre.

"Good night, eh?" the deputy asks, when the oarman has committed them to the waves. He doesn't wait for an answer that won't come, as he lowers his chin to his chest and closes his eyes. Vi still nods a reply into the darkness, looking up at the stars that appear quite suddenly and brilliantly as the boat escapes the reach of the smothering smog. Then she too settles down for the quiet return trip; wind in her hair and dawn creeping around the corner, Vi dozes off in the rocking boat, dreaming of tomorrow.

* * *

*Epilogue

Vi will consume dozens of these so-called cherries in her lifetime before finally tasting the bona fide fruit. Caitlyn will laugh at the face she pulls (_it doesn't taste the same_) and show her how to spit out the pits (_almost chipped a tooth, _goddammit_ stop laughing_) and kiss the juice from her lips, sweet as the summer sun.


End file.
